The Taming of the Bastard (6 page)

*****

Having agreed
to the date, I had the next hurdle to overcome.

“Adele, is it
okay for me to take Saturday afternoon off this week?”

We were in the
kitchen of the Richards-Shaw’s Nedlands mansion. I was mixing up
the organic Bircher muesli Adele insisted the children eat for
breakfast three mornings a week to keep them regular. Adele was
arranged along the chaise, sipping her first double decaf, low-fat
latte of the day. The sun was streaming in through the French doors
of the family area, hitting the highlights in her hair and setting
a surreal glow around her peignoir. If she hadn’t been hung over
from the three bottles of wine the previous evening, she would have
looked beautiful.

She looked up
from her paper—
The Australian
—which she had delivered by
courier every morning. “I suppose so, Millie. Brian and I have no
engagements. Why? Do you feel a pressing need to go shopping in
Subiaco again? I thought you were banned from the Pandora
shop.”

“I’ve been
invited to watch a rugby match.”

Adele’s ears
pricked up. Slowly, she put down her newspaper, a rare occurrence
unless it was to chastise at the children for scuffing the
travertine tiles. Her eyes sparkled. The mere thought of romance
could send her into paroxysms of joy. “Do you have a date,
darling?”

“Not exactly. I
thought it might be interesting, that’s all.”

“Yes. Well,
that would depend on which code we’re talking about. League or
Union?”

I stared at her
blankly. There were different codes? Oh dear. I had no idea this
would be so complicated. I’d thought the WAGs to be my greatest
challenge, now I had to learn two sets of rules?

“Oh,
darrrrling
. What are we going to do with you?” Adele
released a disgruntled sigh. (Her usual response when I said
something insanely ridiculous.) Then she shook her head, letting me
know it was time for another ‘life lesson’. “Rugby League is a game
of glorified chasings for brainless thugs who can run fast and
enjoy beating other people up legally.” She sat up on the chaise,
well versed and ready to share her knowledge. “Rugby Union,
conversely, is a game of tactics and strategy. It’s like the Chess
of sport. It’s the game they play in Heaven.”

Amazed as I was
that my boss could string such a coherent speech together at eight
in the morning, it dawned on me that I’d heard that expression
before. Maybe there was more to this game than I’d thought. Or it
could be some sort of brainwashing thing. Like Scientology.

“It’s a
delightful game to watch,” she continued as she swung one leg over
the other and took a dainty sip of her latte. “All those hard
bodies. Brian used to play rugger in his younger days, you know. He
was a wonderful fly-half. It was poetry in motion watching him. Not
that you’d know it now, of course.”

I had no idea
what she was talking about but the sight of Brian in a pair of
shorts was not something I would ever have described as poetry. His
butt crack when dressed in tracksuit pants, straight from a
workout, could rival the San Andres Fault. I went back to the
breakfast preparations. “So it’s okay if I go?”

“Of course,
darling! Take the whole day. And keep an eye out for my godson. He
plays in the local competition. He’s such a sweet thing.”

I mumbled a
‘yes’ and promptly forgot about the whole thing. As if I would be
going around looking for some nancy, private school boy who was
Adele’s godson. I was going to have my hands full trying to figure
out what was the hell was going on.

So there I was,
at five-thirty the following Saturday afternoon, alone in the
corner of a rugby clubroom with a glass of cabernet for company.
One side of the room was crowded with photos of teams dating back
to the turn of the twentieth century. A selection of framed,
autographed jerseys decorated the opposite wall. The bar area was
delineated by a huge road sign from a place called Cowcowing,
obviously genuine and obviously stolen. It was battered, rusty and
still bearing the scars of the robbery. Next to me, overseeing my
every move, a seven-foot high stuffed bear reared on its haunches
with what looked like a year old sausage roll in its paw. A
rough-drawn placard dangled from its neck declaring, ‘Feed Me!’

Yeah, like I
was going to do that.

It was
daunting.

Everybody knew
everybody and I knew nobody.

They were in
brown and gold and I stuck out like a lone spring bulb in a sea of
autumn with my tulip coloured coat and cerise pink sneakers. The
women were kissing the men and flirting while swilling champagne.
The players were slapping each other’s backs and congratulating
each other on their fine rucking and mauling—whatever that was—as
if they hadn’t been trying to commit murder twenty minutes before.
They were playing some weird sort of drinking game that looked like
LUDO for grownups and doing shots of tequila. I didn’t belong here
at all. I was an out-there girl but this whole scenario was
too
out there, even for me.

I gazed
hopefully around the room, praying I’d feel less like the
girlfriend of the bear and more like someone people wanted to
converse with soon. Where the hell was Sam? How much longer was he
going to leave me here alone? I mean, it didn’t take twenty-five
minutes to do his hair, did it? He didn’t have that much. Then,
just as I was glancing at my watch one last time and deciding to
ditch the place I heard a high pitched voice behind me.

“It’s, like,
um, totally scary isn’t it?” There was a tap on my shoulder so I
turned in the direction of the voice.

“It is a
bit.”

“I’m Kirby
Russell. My fiancé-to-be, Rambo, is like, uh, the full back.
Totally awesome.” The girl pointed the rim of her champagne glass
toward the bar and blew a kiss to guy. It was a tall weedy guy I’d
seen at
Lux Bar
. He had brown hair and shoulders that I’m
certain only looked big because he’d forgotten to take his
protective padding off. Someone had picked his nickname on a dark
night. A very, dark night.

“That’s Rambo,”
she giggled.

“Interesting
nickname.”

Kirby tinkled
like a fairy escaped from an Enid Blyton story. Her manicured hand
came to rest on my forearm. “O.M.G! That’s, like, what everyone
says, you must be totally psychic or something.”

“Totally.”

God, I was
having a conversation with... Rugby Barbie.

I knew it was
rude but I looked her up and down. Kirby was gorgeous, the epitome
of the sporting wife and the exact opposite of me. She had the
hair, the nails and she was swathed from head to foot in baby pink
fluff. Her whole coiffed presence was intimidating even though she
was a good four inches shorter than me.

“Rambo thinks
he’s all that but, honestly, he uses that cheap man moisturiser
from the chemist. He hasn’t got a clue about facial hygiene. I’m
going to rectify that when we’re engaged of course. What’s your
name again?”

Having no idea
what on earth this conversation was about, I latched onto the part
I could comprehend. “I’m Millie. Millie McIntyre.”

“So, who are
you here with? All the girls, like, want to know. Is it Woody?
Mitch?”

“Sam,” I said
and spilt my red wine down my coat. It was appalling that the mere
mention of him would have such an effect on me but I shouldn’t have
been surprised. I’d knocked a jumbo cup of coke over Alex’s leg
when I saw Hugh Jackman take his shirt off in
Australia
.

Kirby’s
expertly shaped eyebrows shot to the top of her golden head and her
cherry coloured mouth formed a perfect ‘O’. “Sam Brockton?” she
said, as she innocently produced a baby wipe from her tote and
began to dab at my chest like I was five. “There. All fixed.”

“Thanks.”

“So you’re with
the
Sam Brockton?” she repeated.

“Um, yes?” I
didn’t like where this was heading.

Suddenly, there
was a terrible shrieking. Kirby was squealing in my ear. She was
grabbing my shoulders and shaking me. The remains of my wine
slopped in the glass barely missing my clothing.

“Omigod!
Omigod! Omigod! I thought Sam was totally taking the piss again
when he said he’d invited a girl. This is, like, totally unreal.
Wait till I tell the others. Stay right there,” she commanded
shoving me back into my spot next to the bear. “Do not move a
muscle, I’ll be right back.”

So, I did as
she asked but I wasn’t sure if I'd won the lottery or put myself in
front of The Hornets Ladies Firing Squad.

I was not alone
for much longer. Kirby elbowed her way back through the crowd,
leading an array of rugby girls, armed with alcoholic beverages.
They stopped and smiled in unison like the Miss World judging
panel. Then, they began to fire questions at my head, some of which
I was able to dodge. Mostly, I just stood there with my mouth
open.

“So, you’re
going out with Sam?”

“Isn’t he a
hottie?”

“How long?”

“Where did you
meet?”

“Do you like
rugby?”

It was too
much. Where the hell was Sam? He was supposed to be looking after
me. I had no idea how to deal with this. It was worse than being
banned from the Pandora shop.

Desperately, I
swallowed and scanned the room above their heads for Sam to save
me. But, of course, he wasn’t there. He’d abandoned me to a stuffed
bear and a girl who looked like Barbie. This did not bode well on
his part for a repeat date.

Then Kirby said
something completely left-of-centre. “Are you wearing that new
Napoleon
plumping lipgloss?”

“Um, er, yes.”
It’d been my one extravagance in preparation for my non-date with
Sam. That lipgloss had cost me more than I cared to admit.

“Nice. The
shade suits your colouring, though you could have gone a smidge on
the pinker side.”

I stared back
at her, mute. How did one respond to that?

A dark haired
girl pushed Kirby aside. She rolled her eyes at me and smiled. “Oh
for fuck’s sake… just ignore her. She’s a complete idiot about
makeup—”

Sounded like
she knew what she was talking about to me. I think.

“—Kirby works
at
David Jones
cosmetic department. She’s always analysing
people’s makeup. And honestly, I’d be a good deal richer if I
hadn’t let her talk me into the latest indelible fucking foundation
by Lancôme.”

“You have to
admit, it’s totally changed your makeup routine,” Kirby said.

“Absolutely
beside the point. Now leave poor—what’s your name by the way?”

“I’m Millie.
Millie McIntyre.”

“Good. Now
leave poor Millie alone, Kirbs. She looks like she’s about to faint
as it is…I’m Melanie Samson, anyway.”

Melanie was
tall, dark and slim, with the kind of lush pink lips and peaches
and cream complexion that didn’t need lip plumping gloss. Her
clothes hugged her figure in all the right ways and her amber eyes
were highlighted with the exact right amount of shadow. She was
incredible looking. And it’s not often I call another girl
incredible.

She was also
slightly intimidating.

“Sam’s always
last out of the rooms,” Melanie said, her voice low and smooth like
coffee. “I don’t know what he does in there. There was speculation
at one stage he had a harem to satisfy before he made an
appearance. I wouldn’t put it past him. He thinks he’s God’s gift.”
She laughed at her own humour.

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. Sam’s
trés popular with the girls.”

“So, what do
you do, Millie?” asked another girl who’d introduced herself as
Sasha. Curious, she cocked her head and gazed at me, taking a deep
drag on her cigarette and blowing smoke rings towards the ceiling.
I didn’t think smoking was even allowed in public places anymore.
These girls were a law unto themselves.

“I’m a
nanny.”

“Oh, that’s
like so, totally, sweet,” gushed Kirby. “I adore children. Ryan and
I .... He’s like, a teacher you know .... Well, we want to have at
least six.”

“Can’t
understand why anyone would choose nannying as a profession,”
Melanie remarked to on one in particular. “Fucking crap wages.
People flinging shit on you all the time. Literally.”

I shrugged. The
wages were crap but I got a whopping bonus every Christmas and
tonnes of holidays on the slopes of Italy. Even if I did have to
look after the kids at the same time. “It’s not my only job. I’m
also a waitress at
The Lederhosen
. That’s where Sam and I
met.”

I explained my
plan-slash-dream, the one where I was no longer ironing school
uniforms and going to playgroup but running a boutique B & B
for rich people who wanted loads of privacy.

“Wow, you must
be knackered by the end of the week,” said Sasha. “Dragging myself
to the hospital every day is enough for me. And looking after Simmo
is a full time job. The guy still can’t work the coffee
machine.”

The other girls
laughed.

“I do get
tired, but I have a goal so I concentrate on that,” I answered,
pleased with myself that I was having such a deep conversation with
women I didn’t even know.

“You know,
Millie, I can’t believe you’re going out with Sam,” Melanie
said.

“Why?”

Was I not
pretty enough? Not sophisticated enough for a man like Sam?

“He’s an
absolute man-whore. I think he’s slept with most of the single
girls in the club, not that he’s one to kiss and tell. He doesn’t
do dates and girlfriends. He’s not the commitment type.”

“How long have
you known him?”

“This season
and last. We sussed him out pretty quick. It happens when you spend
entire weekends in people’s company.”